Just Curious
by Klyntaliah
Summary: She wasn't worried about him, just curious. Clintasha oneshot, could be seen as romantic or platonic. Rating upped for brief mild language.


**This is actually one of the first fics I wrote - I found it in an old notebook as a sucky multi-chapter fic, decided it had promise, and turned it into this oneshot.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

She hadn't been happy when he'd told her.

"Why not?" she'd demanded, a scowl crossing her face.

He'd sighed and folded his arms, looking none too pleased himself.

"Because you don't have enough clearance yet," he'd said. "The op's a Level Five. I barely made the cut myself."

"But I'm part of STRIKE too," she'd argued. "I should be able to go with you."

"I know. I told Coulson the same thing," he'd said. "He told me it's just protocol."

She'd slumped back in her chair, recognizing defeat.

"How long will you be gone?"

"I dunno; four, five days. Should be less than a week, if everything goes well."

"And you're going where, exactly?"

He'd shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. Can't talk about it."

"Alright, then just tell me this: is the project high-risk?"

She'd noticed a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, it is kinda. But I'm sure we can handle it," he'd said. "I wouldn't worry too much."

"I'm not worried," she'd said quickly.

Clint had arched an eyebrow, smiling.

"I'm _not,"_ she'd repeated, frustrated. "I was asking out of curiosity."

" _Oh,_ I see how it is," he'd joked, grinning."

"No I'm not _wishing harm_ on you," she'd said in irritation. "I just—I'm—" She'd fumbled with her words, trying to explain.

Clint had waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"I'm just not particularly _concerned_ about… your wellbeing," she'd finally managed to say.

After a moment, Clint had chuckled.

"Okay. Good to know," he'd said, getting to his feet. "I'll see you 'round, Romanoff."

 **.** **.** **.**

But he hadn't. That had been the last opportunity she'd had to talk to him before he'd left with the STRIKE team, and it had bothered her later that that had been the note they'd had to part on. She'd wondered, looking back, if she'd sounded more callous than she'd intended to.

But she'd pushed these thoughts aside – callous or not, she'd meant what she'd said. She wasn't worried about Clint, because to worry about him would mean that, in some capacity, she cared about him.

And, as a rule, Natasha Romanoff did not care about people.

 **.** **.** **.**

During the first week, she'd thought about him a lot. She'd wondered where he was, what he was doing. Whether or not he was safe.

These reflections, of course, had not arisen from worry. Her mind had dwelt on the subject because she'd been curious about the mission, and had looked forward to seeing him again, if just because she'd lacked a sparring partner.

She'd also spent some time in his favorite hangout spots around the base – the café, the shooting range, even the rooftop. Her coworkers had probably thought it was out of sentimentality, but in reality, the spaces had been empty and peaceful in his absence, and she'd simply found them to be good places to think.

Near the end of the week, she'd offhandedly mentioned to Hill what Clint had said about the op lasting less than a week if everything went well. Hill's mouth had hardened into a thin line. Then she'd told Natasha not to worry about it.

Natasha had assured her that she wouldn't.

 **.** **.** **.**

During the second week, something had shifted.

There had been a certain tension on the base among the upper-level agents, and she'd caught snippets of their muttered conversations in the halls: "should've been back by now", "never showed up at the extraction point", "status is unknown."

At last, she'd confronted Hill and demanded to know what was going on. She was his partner, she'd said; she had a right to know.

Hill had been understanding, sympathetic, even, but she'd refused to give Natasha any information. She was sorry, she'd said, but she wasn't authorized to disclose classified mission details to junior agents.

So Natasha had been left to consider the horribly real possibility that something had happened to Clint. And it was only then that she'd realized she'd been taking him for granted all along. He'd been warmer and more open towards her than anyone else; he'd always treated her with respect, and had believed in her from the beginning.

And she'd thought about how she'd treated him in response. She'd been cold, even hostile, repeatedly shutting him out in spite of his patience with her. And now she'd begun to wish she could somehow change her actions toward him; if only to ease the weight of guilt in her chest.

Of course, she still hadn't been worried about him.

But her curiosity about the mission had become almost unbearable.

 **.** **.** **.**

And then, midway through the third week, he'd returned.

She'd caught onto a certain energy in the halls – warmer greetings, easier smiles, lighter steps. And then she'd heard the news, passed from one agent to another: " _They're back."_

And now she was running through the halls, heading for the entrance, hardly daring to believe until she's seen with her own eyes—

The STRIKE team was standing just inside the helipad entrance, talking to Fury, Coulson, and Hill. Natasha circled the group, peering around taller agents, but she couldn't see him.

"But you completed your mission objective? You secured the hostage?" Fury was saying.

"Yes, sir," Rumlow replied. "He's in rough shape, we had to cart him off to medical. But he'll survive."

"How soon will he be in a condition to answer questions?" Hill asked.

Rumlow responded, but Natasha wasn't listening. She tapped the nearest STRIKE member on the shoulder.

"Where's Barton," she asked urgently.

"He went to medical," came the reply, and her heart dropped into her stomach. She turned and was running again, heading down the hallway towards the medical wing.

So he was in medical. That didn't mean anything. It could be a broken bone or a splinter. She wouldn't let herself think about what kind of condition he might be in – she'd find out when she got there.

She rounded a corner and ran straight into him.

"What the _hell!"_ they said together.

Natasha stared. "I thought you went to medical!"

He gestured over his shoulder. "Yeah, s'just dropping off the hostage."

"But I thought you were hurt!"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Why'd you think that?"

"Well they said—Oh, never mind," she said impatiently, and she threw her arms around him.

She felt him take in his breath, but she didn't care what he thought. All she cared about was that he was back, and that he was okay.

A moment passed before he spoke.

"Watch it, Widow," he said. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you're—ah— _concerned about my wellbeing."_

"I _am,"_ she growled into his shoulder.

Surprised by her own admission, she looked up to gauge his reaction.

And up close, his face was more tired and strained than she'd realized. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, but they still twinkled as he smiled down at her.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Good to know."

As a rule, Natasha Romanoff did not care about people.

She just cared about one.

* * *

 **I've decided to try and start posting a Clintasha oneshot per month - that might not always happen, but I'm going to _try_. x) In-between, I'm also working on a couple longer fics, but my muse has been ornery lately so I don't know when I'll have them done.**

 **Anyways, hope you enjoyed February's oneshot-of-the-month, and I'll (hopefully) be back with a new one in March! :)**


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